


Can I tell you a terrible thing?

by BrokenTailLights



Category: 5 Seconds of Summer (Band)
Genre: Angst, It's fluffy but it gets sad, M/M, Songfic, i think it has a sort of happy ending, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-21
Updated: 2015-12-21
Packaged: 2018-05-08 07:00:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5487992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrokenTailLights/pseuds/BrokenTailLights
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was love from a fairy tale, scripted into a film, made into a sequel and performed over and over in theatres. They were what you’d call perfect, a love that people rolled their eyes at, but only because their faces were green with envy and their minds trapped with jealousy. It was MichaelAndCalum or none at all, they were inseparable but not clingy, they held trust but not jealousy, it was love and lust and passion thrown into one mix and they couldn’t have asked for anything more.</p>
<p>(Based off Terrible Things by Mayday Parade)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Can I tell you a terrible thing?

**Author's Note:**

> This is what happens when I listen to the same sad song on repeat for like 3 weeks straight.

**“BOY CAN I TELL YOU A WONDERFUL THING? I CAN’T HELP BUT NOTICE YOU’RE STARING AT ME”**

Michael first met Calum when he was sixteen, killing time in the school library, flicking through a book he actually should have _completed_ months ago, because his exam was soon, but here he was only just starting it now. In fact, Michael wasn’t even starting it, even to this point he was simply _debating_ whether or not he should start it- and well, that was progress (because if he recalled correctly, he didn’t even know where the damn thing was a few weeks ago, so he wasn’t doing so bad.)

Michael’s mental debate came to an obvious decision of _no,_ so instead he allowed his eyes to skit over the barely occupied tables of the library, and landed on a boy with dark hair and pretty eyes.   
Michael wasn’t a subtle person, _at all,_ so he decided to check the person out, not really giving a fuck whether the boy could sense his eyes or not because, well, he was cute. His eyes flitted from the top of his curly strands, down to his eyes that were concentrating hard on a ‘Match Attax’ magazine, to his cute little nose, and plump, slightly chapped, lips. They went further down to the tie, tied loosely around his neck, then the white, slightly crumpled, one button un-buttoned shirt, and then- Michael decided he should stop at the boy’s waist.

Said boy, had now averted his gaze over to Michael, eyebrows raised in amusement at the blatant checking out, and Michael only shrugged shamelessly, although he could feel his pale cheeks reddening _damn you genes._

The boy shifted to roll up his magazine and shove it in his backpack before slinging it over his shoulder and making his way over.

“Hey” He grinned, and it was _that type_ of grin that made you grin back even if you didn’t want to.

“Hi” Michael replied. He wasn’t sure whether he should stand also, or if he should stay sitting but the boy didn’t seem to mind either way, so he stayed put “What brings you over here?”

The boy raised his eyebrows in sheer amusement once more, before speaking,

“I have a weird sixth sense. Can feel when someone’s watching. And well, **I couldn’t help but notice you were staring at me.** I’m Calum- and you are…?”

**“TOO YOUNG TO NOTICE, AND TOO DUMB TO CARE. LOVE WAS A STORY THAT COULDN'T COMPARE”**

It didn’t take long for Michael and Calum to become a thing. Everything was _there,_ and unlike most people, their love was handed to them on a plate. Not just a plate, but rather a golden platter, complete with shining cutlery and a satisfying feast. Their days together could range from playing the same video game for six hours straight, or exploring abandoned buildings until even the comfort of each other wasn’t enough to go on.

It was love from a fairy tale, scripted into a film, made into a sequel and performed over and over in theatres _._ They were what you’d call _perfect,_ a love that people rolled their eyes at, but only because their faces were green with envy and their minds trapped with jealousy. It was _MichaelAndCalum_ or none at all, they were inseparable but not _clingy,_ they held _trust_ but not _jealousy,_ it was love and lust and passion thrown into one mix and they couldn’t have asked for anything more.

Their relationship was late nights filled with laughs, drunken giggles silenced by soft kisses, pained hangovers cured by _love._ It was grabbing coffee at three am or three pm, it was watching the sunrise then watching each other, it was pillow fights and tug of wars, and talking about a future, _their_ future until stupid o clock, then falling asleep in each other’s arms.

It was an immediate approval from each of their families, a warm welcome and a warm smile from strangers on the street, because their love radiated out to even _foreigners._ They were **young** , they were in **love** , and they couldn’t have wished for anything else.

**“OPEN WITH CARE NOW, I'M ASKING YOU PLEASE. YOU KNOW THAT I LOVE YOU, WILL YOU MARRY ME?”**

It didn’t come as a huge surprise when Michael proposed only three years later. In fact, it would have been a bigger surprise if one of them _didn’t_ propose.

The proposal took place on top of a hill in Calum’s local park, and _of course_ he’d seen this coming, because his boyfriend would probably find it easier to dig a hole into another hemisphere, than to keep a secret. But it was a moonlit night of beauty, _literally,_ where Michael had planned that they have a picnic, only to get there and realise he’d forgotten the picnic basket, and Calum had laughed, with _fond_ in his eyes, and _fond_ in his voice, and _fond_ in his heart, because Michael Clifford was the biggest fucking dork he’d ever met, but if he knew there was a _bigger_ dork he wouldn’t go near them, just so that wouldn’t change.

But they lay on the grass, on a warm summer’s night, licking the ice cream that they had managed to chase down from a _very_ annoyed looking ice-cream man in his van, but they did it _together_ so what does it matter if he charged them a little extra because it was past his working hours?

And when Michael finally _did_ muster up the courage to present the ring, after tossing it between sweaty fingers for more than twenty minutes, then it was _totally_ worth it, because Calum’s face seemed to light up brighter than the moon behind them, _which was a full fucking moon._ And maybe Michael didn’t get down on one knee, because Calum couldn’t stop giggling, because he’d known all along, _of course he had known all along,_ so he put the ring on himself, because Michael kept dropping it, but what _really_ mattered, was when Calum kissed him square on the mouth, without his tongue, but just his lips on Calum’s, and his cheeks squished between the soft palms of his boyfriend, Michael realised he couldn’t ask for anything more in that moment.

And that night, when the two boys stumbled into Michael’s bedroom, giggling like drunk teenagers, despite the fact that the only intoxicating constituent they’d consumed that night was the presence of each other, Calum finally realised the difference between having sex and _making love._

**“BOY, CAN I TELL YOU A TERRIBLE THING? IT SEEMS THAT I'M SICK, AND I'VE ONLY GOT WEEKS.”**

The first stomach pain came at 3 am, excruciating and unbearable, when Calum shot up in bed, clutching his abdomen, as Michael slept soundly beside him. _Mike,_ he had managed to gasp out, and the soundly asleep boy shot up soon after, an automatic arm wrapping around the shoulder of his husband, worry etched over his face, lip clutched between his top teeth.

There were mutters of _babe, what’s wrong_ followed by a _please call an ambulance,_ and Michael remembers _fucking hesitating,_ before reaching for his phone, and dialling triple zero, with shaky fingers and sweaty palms, and he _still_ doesn’t remember what he told the person on the other line, or if he said _anything at all,_ but he _does_ remember sirens, and rushing people, and begging to be allowed to come with his husband, which didn’t even _deserve_ begging rights, but he did so anyway.

Calum wasn’t diagnosed after the first heavy pain. Or the second, or the third. Michael noticed though. He noticed the way that the kiwi boy was losing weight faster than he ever thought possible. He noticed the way Calum would clutch at his stomach, the way he started to take more days off work, and appreciated smaller meals rather than larger ones. He noticed his sick husband, _he knew more than the doctors did,_ but he refused to believe it.

And a week before it happened, there was an argument. Calum had said the word, the name of the disease, _the ‘C’ word,_ and Michael felt like crumbling. There were yells followed by screams, following by shouts, ending in whispers. There was the continuous question of _why didn’t you tell me,_ and the repeated answer of _this is exactly why I didn’t._ There was the _how could you have kept quiet_ and the _why would you even want to know._ And Michael doesn’t remember much more of the argument; he doesn’t remember how it started, nor how it fuelled. But he remembers how it ended. The water washing out the fire, the ripping off of the Band-Aid, except after both of these incidents comes healing and coolness, yet _none of this_ took place when Calum screamed _I’m fucking dying, Michael_ and Michael honest to god _whimpered,_ because he’d been denying it for _months,_ and now the bombshell had dropped, and holy shit did it leave a wreckage.

Michael spent seven days stuck next to his husband. He didn’t go to work, and he didn’t interact with his family or his friends, He followed Calum like a sick puppy, to all his appointments, to all of his therapy sessions, although the entire time he wanted to scream, _It’s fucking useless,_ this _is fucking useless._ But he didn’t. He stayed silent, because it was what Calum wanted, and _anything_ that Calum wanted came first. Always had, always will. Right till the end.

And when Calum mumbled something about planning out a funeral, Michael didn’t even hesitate, although everything was suddenly starting to feel _so real._ But it was what Calum wanted- so it happened. Nobody was to wear black, because Calum had worn black all of his living years, and black was too sad- and his funeral was to celebrate his life, not _mourn_ over it. So the attendants were conditioned to wear white, and the music to be played was anything that didn’t contain an orchestra. And there was going to be food, Calum’s favourite food, and whoever cried had to leave the room, because Calum didn’t want to be _cried_ over, he wanted to be _smiled_ over.

And it happened so suddenly. Because Calum had been spending his final few waking days at the hospital, where his family would visit and Michael had basically moved in, and it happened overnight, so Calum Hood was carried away with the moon and the dark sky- disappeared with the stars, as he was gone by morning. And Michael mourned, and Michael cried, and Michael yelled and Michael whined, and he hibernated and Michael felt fucking _wrecked,_ because they were supposed to leave together and Calum had broken the promise.

But then Michael smiled, and Michael laughed, and he sobered and he started to talk again, and it was like being reborn, despite his other half still missing, and he knew he’d never move on from his true love, and when he closed his eyes and thought hard enough he could still see a sixteen year old Calum, head buried into a football magazine, soon replaced with an eighteen year old Calum laughing at the stars, then substituted for a twenty year old Calum, eyes glistening like the diamond on his ring finger- and finally a twenty three year old Calum lying sick and weak, but still the most beautiful sixteen year old boy in Michael’s mind. And maybe he would always be _just okay,_ and maybe there would never come a time when he didn’t reach out for his non-existent husband in the mornings, and maybe he would never really get used to being only half a person. But maybe one day, they’d reunite- and he could be whole again.

Just maybe.


End file.
